The silence of my penthouse office felt heavy, suffocating. I sat behind a desk carved from solid obsidian, the blue glow of my monitors reflecting off the cold glass. Hannah’s words echoed in my mind like a gunshot: Growing up without her father actually being there.

Hannah didn't wait for me to answer.

With a sudden, explosive movement, she stepped out from behind my shoulder, sliding her tactical backpack off her shoulders and holding it out over the open drop toward the crashing waves eighty feet below.

"You want the research, Cole?" she shouted over the howling wind, her grey eyes locking onto the director with absolute defiance. "Come and get it!"

"Hannah, no!" I yelled, reaching out to grab her arm.

"Here!" she screamed, and with a mighty heave, she hurled the heavy tactical backpack straight out into the empty space over the cliff edge.

Cole’s eyes tracked the bag as it plummeted downward into the churning white foam of the Atlantic surf. Instinct, greed, and desperation overrode his tactical discipline. With a frustrated roar, he lunged toward the edge of the gallery, leaning over the iron railing to watch the bag hit the water.

That single split-second distraction was all I needed.

I lunged forward, closing the distance between us before his operatives could adjust their sights. I drove my shoulder directly into Cole’s midsection, carrying him hard against the rusted iron railing.

The old metal groaned under our combined weight, rivets snapping like dry twigs.

"Victor!" Cole gasped, his fingers clawing desperately at my jacket as his legs dangled out over the empty air above the jagged rocks.

"This is for Arthur Sterling," I whispered, my voice cold as winter ice.

With a final, explosive shove, I broke the remaining iron stays. Cole screamed as he tipped backward over the railing, plummeting downward into the darkness, swallowed instantly by the roaring Atlantic waves below.

The two remaining operatives froze, lowering their weapons as they stared in horror at the empty gallery. Without a word, I turned toward them, my bare hands curling into iron fists. They took one look at my face, dropped their rifles, and bolted down the spiral staircase into the fog.

The lighthouse fell silent again, save for the wind and the crashing waves.

I turned around. Hannah was standing near the center of the shattered glass dome, her chest heaving, tears finally breaking free and streaming down her cheeks—not from fear, but from the crushing weight of a five-year war finally coming to an end.

I walked over, pulling her into my arms and burying my face in her hair. She clung to me fiercely, her fingers gripping the fabric of my jacket as if she were afraid I would vanish into the mist.